


Mork, Marvin, Megatron, and Dammit-Jim-NO!

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's brilliant breeding programme has produced so many bunnies he's running out of names for them. Bones is not at all happy to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mork, Marvin, Megatron, and Dammit-Jim-NO!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nix_this](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nix_this/gifts).



> This is a sort of AU timestamp to "Flopsy, Mopsy, and Dammit-Jim-NO!" [[LJ](http://janice-lester.livejournal.com/218621.html) | [DW](http://janice-lester.dreamwidth.org/183241.html) | [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/698654)], and is an effort to explain [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[**nix_this**](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/)'s excellent title for that fic. Will probably stand alone okay. Very silly and cracky, with drug-producing bunnies. Art at the end by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/).

 

“Okay,” Jim says, juggling through the files on his photo card to find the best one of the new arrivals, “I just need one more name. See, this is Mork, and this is Marvin—” he helpfully points out the fluffy furry face of each name’s owner. “And here’s Megatron, he’s a little shy, but he’s already making great contributions to the programme. Bit stinky, though, but I don’t hold that against him. They’re all a bit stinkier than the last crop, actually.” He frowns, scoots the picture over a bit so he can enlarge the adorable countenance of the as yet unnamed adorable runt of the litter. “This is another boy, his mom’s Flopsy and his dad’s Spiderman II. But I just can’t seem to think of a name that would suit him, because he’s just so—”

“Jim, can’t you see I’m busy?”

Jim can see that, of course he can. The tottering tower of books is a huge clue, as is the look of great and terrible wrath on Bones’s face as he attempts to copy his neat hand-drawn diagram from his old-fashioned notebook into his padd. This involves many murderous stabbing motions of his stylus. Jim promptly adds ‘stress ball’ to his list of possible Bones birthday presents. Right after ‘bunny’ and ‘bourbon’. “This will just take a second,” Jim promises, attempting to soothe with a sweet smile. “I just need you to look at this little guy—”

Bones looks up, squints at the photo card Jim has been waving in front of him for the last two minutes, and promptly looks down again. “Very nice. Was that all?”

“No, Bones, because I kinda need your help with this.”

“Is it a matter of life and death?”

“Well, no. I just—”

“Why don’t you come back later?” He gives the screen another vicious jab and the padd squawks in terror. Or, you know, in unfeeling inanimate error-message tone.

“Yes, but, he’ll develop a complex or something if we don’t find him a name.”

“Damn it, Jim—”

“Just one little name.”

“This really is NOT a good time.”

The unusual red tones of Bones’s face make him look about ready to explode. That particular standard issue Starfleet Academy padd has a _lot_ to answer for.

“Just a name, Bones. He needs a name. Give him a name. Don't worry, you won't have to crown yourself emperor afterwards and lose all your marbles.”

Bones growls. He does not appear to be listening, but then he often appears not to be listening and Jim Kirk doesn’t generally let that kind of thing stop him.

Jim coaxes. “Just one little name?”

Bones mumbles something about homologous metacarpals or some such that clearly isn’t at all relevant to the issue at hand.

Jim huffs. “Look, Bones, if you don’t start taking this seriously, I’m going to saddle the poor little guy with the next thing that comes out of your mouth for a name.”

“Dammit-Jim-NO!” He scowls. “Wait, what?”

Jim blinks. Glances from Bones’s averted eyes and gritted teeth to the bunny picture in his hand. “Yep, okay, that’ll work,” he decides happily, good mood entirely restored. “See ya later, Bones.”

Bones eschews farewell in favour of the kind of incomprehensible muttering that is probably serious insult material in Kentucky or wherever. Jim heads merrily for the door, already resolving to come back and cheer the guy up once he’s done with this nasty assignment.

***

Dammit-Jim-NO! takes quite happily to his new name. He’s possibly, secretly, Jim’s favourite of this month’s litter. Oddly-shaped brown spots on white, charming little baby teeth he likes to nibble your fingers with if you don’t have carrots, and this adorable way of getting into mischief if you leave him unattended to answer a comm call or something. Dammit-Jim-NO! _will_ fight his way into a discarded sock if he wants to. And then eat his way out again. He’ll chew on anything that looks chewy, use his little paws to erase that homework you left open on your padd, and he makes this adorable weird farting sound when you tickle his tummy. He doesn’t have his mom’s ears, but other than that he’s just about perfect. Jim’s hoping to fatten him up fast to increase his delightfully high-quality (if overly odoriferous) output.

Bones _could_ be more interested, given that he’s kind of like the little guy’s patron saint or whatever, having given him his name, but Bones is really more interested in proving he’s a medical genius who can ship’s doctor with the best of them. And, of course, going out on dates with Jim. Well, dates with strong alcohol to which Jim is also invited, but who could object to being the third member of such an awesome threesome? Not Jim Kirk, no ma’am.

Bones is at least vaguely interested in the bunny’s welfare, so Jim takes pains to keep him apprised.

“Dammit-Jim—” he begins one Saturday night while Jim is helpfully attempting to relieve him of his pants.

Jim takes the hint. “Oh, yeah, he’s doing _great_. You wouldn’t recognise him, he’s got so fat, and his coat’s just the most lustrous—”

“We really shouldn’t,” Bones says, half-heartedly defending his pants-ed-ness from Jim’s altruistic efforts. “I’ve got an early class—”

“I’ll be quick,” Jim promises, beaming as he drops to his knees. Efficiency, he totally has it.

***

“Dammit-Jim-” Bones begins, when Jim rolls over to initiate round two.

Now, he’s an open-minded guy, but even so… “It’s awesome to have fantasies and all,” Jim chides very, very gently, not wanting to crush any self-esteems or libidos or whatever, “but I really would rather you didn’t think about bunnies when we were doing it. Unless it’s, you know, a thought about how I have the deliciously insatiable appetite of a bunny or something?” he adds hopefully.

Bones rolls his eyes. “Class,” he grumbles. “Morning. Early.”

Thus reminded, Jim resolves to help him get to sleep as soon—and as satedly—as possible.

***

Jim manages to make the formal introduction when Dammit-Jim-NO! is a couple of months old. Muhammad has not come to the mountain, so Jim has taken the liberty of bringing the mountain over to see Muhammad, safely squirrelled away in the folds of his uniform for the trip. The bunny stares up at Bones with its big, trusting eyes, warm body trembling slightly in Jim’s hands. “I thought you’d like to see him.”

“I’ve seen him.”

Bones seems to be having one of his etiquette-challenged moments, so Jim has to use his elbow as a polite reminder to step out of the way and let them enter his quarters. “And maybe hold him?”

“No, thank you.”

“But he’s so fluffy and wonderful.” Jim thrusts the bunny at Bones’s chest.

“Dammit-Jim-NO!”

Such volume upsets the little critter, so Jim gives him a cuddle to soothe him. “Hey, Bones, I think he might learn to respond to his name better if you said it in a nicer tone sometimes.” He simpers in exaggerated fashion to get the point across. “Dammit-Jim-NO! You're awesome and snuggly and wuggly and cuuute, yes you ARE.” He looks up from Dammit’s irresistible twitching nose and happily rotating ears to his friend. “See? That's how you talk to a bunnywunnywoo.”

Bones looks strangely unimpressed with this masterful demonstration of bunny-whispering.

***

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” Jim observes later that night, once Dammit-Jim-NO! has been safely returned to his cosy cage in the dorm.

Bones glares as if the very suggestion that it would take him any time at all to get used to anything is insulting. Jim consoles him by unbuttoning his shirt. This usually works on most people.

“I’m sure there’s an animal lover in you somewhere.”

“That right?”

Jim doesn’t believe his act for a moment. Bones is totally squishy inside, he’s sure of it. He just doesn’t want to admit that bunny breeding is one of the best ideas _ever_ , because he has this completely unfounded suspicion that anything Jim thinks is a good idea is probably dangerous or stupid or likely to involve spaceflight. It’s impossible not to find this attitude endearing, so Jim doesn’t try.

The seduction routine is, of course, deeply and profoundly successful. At least until they get to the part where they disagree over the importance of clearing all the books and crap off Bones’s bed before tumbling onto it in a tangle of sexy bare limbs, and Bones opens his mouth to complain and says—

“Dammit-Jim-NO!”

—and Jim can’t help pouting and complaining that, for someone who won’t even pet the little fella, Bones is _seriously_ damn obsessed with that rabbit.

Whereupon, for some reason, Bones very sweetly and gently kicks Jim out of his quarters.

And throws his shirt out after him.

And one of his shoes.

Jim successfully dodges one of those items. (Happily it’s the one most likely to leave a bruise.) Hand-eye coordination, man. Bones totally has it.

“Okay,” Jim says, trying not to sound too put out about this inexplicable—and _temporary_ \--rejection of his sexual charms, “rain check it is. Tomorrow, maybe, dinner?” Bones is shrugging into his Academy-issue bathrobe, which reminds Jim that he is standing half-naked in the corridor. Whatever, other people’s Walks of Shame are James T. Kirk’s Walks of Fame. He’s got panache. “I’ll, uh, see you.” He turns, absently collects up his shoe.

An idea occurs. “Uh, and Bones? You think you could come over some time with your kit? I think Mopsy’s pregnant again, but it’s too soon to tell without a proper medical tricorder.”

Bones glowers in a way that probably means yes, and accidentally jabs the door-close button with more force than actually required.

Jim smiles as he strides down the corridor towards the exit. His bunnies will be pleased to have him back again.

***END***

  
  
Art by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[**nix_this**](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/)  



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